(From here on in, you must do some mental jazz hands every time you read LAS VEGAS to get the full effect.

Let’s practice:

LAS VEGAS!

You guys are awesome.)

Our final plan was to meet everyone at our hotel. Take a limo about an hour north to the Valley of Fire state park and get married among the red rocks. Then we were going to trek back to LAS VEGAS and have some dinner at Battista’s Hole in the Wall. Then it was everyone for themselves.

Let me first introduce you to Fancy.

Fancy was my kinda gal. White, cheap and in the need for some lovin’. We found her on the clearance rack at a local wedding dress boutique. Her zipper was dodgy and she had some loose strings but she fit and $59. $59. Fifty nine frickin’ dollars! EVERYTHING ELSE I purchased for the wedding was much more expensive than her. So she was christened Fancy. (After the Reba McIntyre song, Fancy. “Here’s your one chance Fancy don’t let me dooooowwwnnn.”)

MOH4L* Stephanie went dress shopping with me. I’m sure she saw more skin than she cared to. I think she took it well… look how happy she is here:

(*Maid Of Honor For Life – because I read somewhere that once she’s in that position she has to do defend me forever. The trip to LAS VEGAS sealed the deal. She’s easy. Don’t tell her I said that. Don’t worry… she doesn’t read my blog.)

Wayne and I left for LAS VEGAS with a foot of snow on the ground and my little Civic that had a slow leak in one tire. We were way prepared for that and brought a tire-blower-upper thingy that plugs into the cigarette lighter. What we were NOT prepared for was the dead battery we came home to but I digress.

We made our home in the Paris because I stayed there before and liked their bathrooms. Wayne made his first ever wedding decision and asked for a smoking room at the front desk. Eww. I went out and bought candles immediately. I whined about how Fancy was going to smell like smoke. I may or may not still bitch about it to this day.

We were real nice and planned the wedding for December 1st and let everyone know about it in October. We’re thoughtful like that. Even so we had most of our important people fly out to be with us. Wayne even had HIS BOYS:

The day before our wedding it rained. In LAS VEGAS. It’s a desert. No fair! I spent the night with Stephanie in the hotel room watching the Weather Channel. Religiously. My internal clock woke me up every hour to get an update. S-T-R-E-S-S. It was in the 60’s and it might rain. On my outdoor wedding. With my 73 year old grandmother in attendance. ARG!

Morning of: No rain. Wind. HELLA WIND. Whoa doggie. I had my hairs did at the salon upstairs and he promised the curl would hold. He wasn’t kidding. My hair was still curly when I woke up the next day.

Grandma and Uncle Mark arrived from Arizona in the nick of time. Grandma of course had some time to take in some poker machines downstairs. Priorities People! We’re in LAS VEGAS! They were heading right back to the airport after dinner.

The whole gang was there. We were off to the beautiful park!

Then Oh My Fuck. No one told me we were walking up a canyon. That my grandmother with COPD and Stephanie’s flip flops on was going to have to walk up a canyon. But of course, she did with no bitching and was the first one up there.

Then suddenly. It started. Our wedding. After 6 years of “patiently” waiting we were getting married! And the officiant could not be heard above my inner dialogue.

“OMG, we’re getting married!”

“Shut it Amber. You’re in the middle of the ceremony. Concentrate! What if you’re asked a question? I think there’s a question that gets asked in there!”

“You’re still inner dialogue-ing, Amber!”

“Who knew I’d be thinking these thoughts as we were getting married?”

“STFU AMBER!”

Also the pastor kept addressing Wayne as Don. I almost stopped him to tell him he had the wrong info before I remembered that my in-the-process-of-being-married-to husband’s name is Donald Wayne. I’m on top of things.

Wayne’s wedding ring could have easily fit around my wrist. If there was a Big and Tall department in the jewelry store, he would have had to shop there. The ring you see here (not his wedding ring) is his late grandfather’s Teamsters ring.

Everyone was on their feet. People thought they were successfully hiding beer cans. No one sat in the seats for which I picked this place out for because who wants to stand the whole time? My peeps do, that’s who.

At last! It was done. Wayne was hitched. That wagon would be me. You know, a skinny wagon with sparkley wheels.

It was beautiful there and Fancy done good.

Here are all of our lovely guests that ended up being prettier than me.

Then we all piled in and headed back to LAS VEGAS! To celebrate, we popped some bubbly.

Which I can’t stand. Then off to dinner! I ordered spaghetti and ate none of it. Between being nervous and wearing white I just sipped water and then gulped down the cappuccino they serve at the end of the course. That has crack in it. Seriously. Go here next time you’re in LAS VEGAS if only for the cappuccino with crack.

Then we had the cake to cut. In the middle of a crowded restaurant. We had lots of onlookers. I felt GLAMOROUS. That was until Wayne shoved cake UP MY NOSE. I got a little twinkle in my eye and got a little cake on his chin and he gets all revengey so I got buttercreme UP MY NOSE!

After emptying a tissue box, we walked about LAS VEGAS. And my feet hurt. So I walked around barefoot. It was wonderful. In Cesar’s Palace some chicks waiting to get in the club told me I looked beautiful. We were spoiled by the staff when we sat down to gamble. They wanted to load me up with alcohol. I’m a lightweight. A featherweight! And it’s icky. You heard me.

Later, my husband took me back to the hotel room, helped me out of my dress and… dropped me off. I was exhausted. What? We’d been living together for 6 years already and we were in LAS VEGAS! He went out to enjoy the night with his friends and family. I soaked my poor funky feet in the bathtub. I think he got in at 4am.

Later we had LAS VEGAS to ourselves. We did all the touristy things and we gambled and we ordered room service and movies.

It was done. I was Mrs. McNamara. 42 days later I would be with child. Insta-Family!

Years and years and years ago my mind was a mess. As you remember I’m Bipolar. I was always depressed and never consistent with my medication (if I was even taking it). Like a lot of people with similar issues, I had what some call “suicidal ideation”. I had an out. I had a plan. It was like my morbid little teddy bear… if things got hairy I could snuggle up to that. Things weren’t so bad if I always had that. That was also my little secret. Not many knew of my plan and those that did never knew about my back-up plans. I could tearfully confess that my teddy bear was there, destroy said teddy bear with the confessee and proclaim absolution, smile and grab other teddy bear out of hiding. Safe.

You might not understand how safe it feels to have a plan. On the outside looking in, things may not seem that safe at all. Life is precarious on a hair trigger (That would have been HILARIOUS a few years ago). You spend days terrified that something will set off your loved one and the plan gets carried out. It’s terrifying to think about. But to me… it was safe.

Why the hell am I talking about suicide? Well, because things have changed for me. And things have not changed for a lot of other people. Things may not have changed for you. But it can.

This was my mind during the time of the teddy bear:

Confusing and loaded. There was nothing in there that told me, “Ya know Amber, that’s kinda fucked up.” And anyone that would say that (and many people did)… it just wouldn’t get processed.

Then Wayne came along. My husband is NOT a bullshitter and he certainly isn’t going to tell you what you want to hear. ESPECIALLY when it comes to this. He told me that if I committed suicide he would not go to my funeral but he may drop by later to piss on my grave.

The hell?

At first I was kinda pissed. I’m fragile, damnit! Kid gloves, sir! His view was that he loved me. He wanted me around as did a couple other people (heh), he said it would be selfish to do such a thing. And then I thought about people being pissed off at me after I was safe and felt like shit.

At long last my teddy bears were gone. Not forgotten, but not there. Wanted, but not an option. At first I felt trapped. Then I felt safe… with him. He became my Permanent Marker. He covered up some of the confusion and disaster in my mind. It was still there, but I really couldn’t get to it:

A few more years crept by and my biological clock was ticking JUST! LIKE! THIS! Then this guy came into play:

I knew that of course there would be no more thoughts. No more plans. I “knew” it like I “knew” getting cut in half for him wasn’t going to hurt. I convinced myself of it. I was a big fat FAIL if not.

Evan came along and suddenly things changed again. He was my Eraser:

Poof! It was gone. ALMOST not even there. But there’s some residue left behind and I’m glad for that. I need to remember what it was like to feel that way. I need to try to recognize those souls that are cuddling with that teddy bear when I’m not looking. And, I guess, I had to tell you.

Our home was built in the 1970s. Due to this fact, we have a “mirror corner”. It covers the corner of our living room from floor to ceiling. You can kinda see it in this photo in the upper left corner:

You can watch yourself in this mirror as you go down the stairs from the bedrooms.

I remember walking (ok, waddling) down those stairs about a year ago with my big pregnant belly. I’d catch myself in the mirror and unconsciously place a hand on my tummy.

Then a short time later, Evan was born. Wayne and I would so very carefully tip toe down the stairs. We would clutch the hand rail in one hand and hold not-even 5 pound Evan in the other. We would place ourselves in the exact middle of the staircase… careful not to accidentally bump his head into a wall on the way down. We’d search the area for our little dogs, not wanting to trip on them and hurt the baby. I remember pausing on the steps. I remember seeing a small fold of blankets in my arms as a gingerly inched down the stairs after my c-section. He was so tiny. You could scarcely see his face poking out of the swaddling blanket.

Soon after I was walking confidently down those stairs as I watched how natural it looked for me to be cradling an infant in my arms. I didn’t need a handrail. Even the dogs knew to run down the stairs if I shouted, “GO!”

Months would pass I would see myself walking down those steps as I had Evan on my hip, tickling his side while we bounced down the stairs.

And again as I clutched a heavy sleepy Evan against my chest with his arms around my neck.

I pause on the steps and look into that mirror and realize that in a year Evan will be crawling up and down those steps on his own. I can see myself waiting and watching at the top of the steps as he slowly makes his way down.

I know in the future I will see Evan running up those steps to his room to go play. I can see him running up those steps to slam himself into his room because he’s mad at me. I can see him rubbing his eyes as he stumbles down the steps in the morning for breakfast. I can see him missing a step one day and me kissing his boo-boo as he cries.

It’s not easy to swallow the fact that this baby is going to be a kid one day. A kid that can walk and run and talk back to me. It’s hard to imagine that one day I won’t have to carry him down those steps. One day he won’t want me to carry him down those steps.

There are just two of them left until my baby is a full grown man that goes to bars and college.

OK. Maybe not. I have 2 weeks left that I didn’t have with him last year. Two weeks until Evan starts to roll his eyes over stuff I show him because he’s BEEN THERE, DONE THAT before.

“Looky at the pretty colors of autumn. See how the leaves are changing color?”

“Duh, Mom. Saw it last year!”

And don’t say, “YAY! Evan’s almost as year old. w00T!” Because if I was excited and happy about it I would be all LOLzies up in this bitch. But I’m not. No LOLs just some big, fat 😦 s. 😦s all around. Because not only will Evan practically be living on his own in a couple weeks, but I won’t be a mother to a baby anymore. The mother with the tinsy sleeping infant in Target will smuggly say her daughter is just 5 days old and she won’t even bother to ask me how old Evan is because HE’S OBVIOUSLY AN ADULT. You loose smugginess after your baby turns one people and you all know how much I LOVE MY SMUGGIES!

So let’s turn back the clock shall we? Let’s look back a year and she what I was arrogantly doing at the time when I thought I had a month and a half before the baby was born when I really had just 14 days. LET US LOOK DENIAL IN THE FACE.

I sent an email to my coworkers with pictures of newborn Lilah who was born just days before.

I was on my weekly Tuesday/Friday doctor schedule and tearing up over my modest amount of vacation time remaining.

Wayne and I had our last birthing class. We learned infant CPR. The previous classes were deemed “the-other-word-for-homosexual” by my lovely husband who announced it in his “quiet voice” during pretend contractions. THANK THE LORD GOODNESS that I didn’t have that labor stuff because Wayne was the only husband in class not to rub my back while we practiced relaxation techniques and then bitched about how much his knees hurt while in various labor positions… (are we getting the irony here?)

I was writing a mundane blog for MySpace telling the world that I was FREAKING THE FUCK OUT and worrying that:

I had less than 1,000 hours to go (in reality I only had 336 hours).

the nursery was not done. (SURPRISE FORMER SELF! The nursery was JUST COMPLETED. You’re welcome).

the baby was going to go to daycare. Wayne and I were seriously thinking about me staying home. (Oh silly FOOLS! SURPRISE FORMER SELF! Wayne was laid off most of 2009! Way to think about stopping your only income!)

I was having too many Braxton-Hicks contractions and my finger tips were getting all hurty from the blood-letting.

We were name-less. Wayne was suggestion-less. I was name-full. Other family members were suggesting-other-names-and-not-liking-our-name-full. Things were about to get bloody. (SURPRISE YET AGAIN FORMER SELF! You’re going to have to look at Wayne all confused while your insides are hanging out and the baby is taking his first breath when the doctor asks the baby’s name. You’ll be like, OH YEAH! HE NEEDS A NAME!)

OK… enough of that. I’ll continue to wig out on my own time and spare you yours. Until my next freakout of course that I’ll have to share the with internets OF COURSE. And when he turns that year number when he’s no longer a month number and you are unable to locate me, I will either be rocking in the corner of a closed, dark closet or replacing my birth control pills with sugar pills and practicing my surprise face.

A year ago this week, I was an over-pregnant, sweaty, waddley pregnant woman. I was riddled with fingerprint needle marks and had bumps where there shouldn’t have been bumps. Aren’t preggo bellies supposed to be round and full and not have a weird flat spot up front that makes you look like you have 2 bellies? Yeah, I thought so. Pregnant bellies are supposed to look like this here:

Carrie and I had a dual maternity photoshoot. She shot me; I shot her. Win/Win you see? Except when in your mind you are a glorious, glow-y, ethereal life carrier and it turns out you look like this:

I’ll leave you with the ACTUAL ethereal mommy-to-be (Carrie) so you can cleanse your WTF palate:

And just how are we going to take a group shot… hem-haw… WE ARE GENIUS!

I remember back when you were just a little glob of cells forming in my womb. I remember clasping a hand to my belly days after that faint pink line appeared and promising you that I would love you. I would love you like no mother has loved her child before. I would love you in a fierce way, a ravenous way, a way that would consume me. I promised you that my life would be for you from that moment on. I made a vow that I would be a rock for you, a never ending source of strength and love and support. I wedded you into my life in such a way that divorce from you would be impossible and ridiculous. A separation from you would null my existence. Losing you would negate me. I told you these things to convince you that I would be the perfect mother for you. I told you these things to convince myself of that too.

I pleaded to nothing and everything that I could live up to that promise. I begged that your father and I could love you as much as we wanted to. We built a wall to protect you even while you were still protected within me. We threw out convictions left and right, solid principles, unmovable stances on subjects we knew nothing about. We were clueless. But it didn’t matter. It was all or nothing. We were in it together. You were going to be loved and cared for to the fullest come hell or high water.

As time ticked away and you grew I held my breath prayed that I was strong enough to be your mother. I was hoping that I would slip into motherhood like an old sweater: so comfortable, so right… nothing you had to think about or stress over. Because it was too late to back out now, I was going to have to fight to the death… if I wasn’t going to win at this, you were going to lose.

I needn’t worry.

You exploded into my life and then the dust settled and the shock wore off I didn’t have any choice. There wasn’t an option to try to love you as best as I could: you demanded it and I couldn’t help it. I was so caught up… I was overwhelmed and loving it. I couldn’t have backed out on my promise if I tried. I wanted to need you, but I didn’t know that you would be my air. I didn’t know that you were going to consume me. I didn’t know everything was so dark; I didn’t know everything could be so light.

I never realised that it would be so easy… strike that… so natural and thoughtless to be your mother. So weightless. I never wanted you to feel like a burden, but it turns out that there is no effort to hide. Sure… I’ve lost some sleep, you’ve cried for no reason what-so-ever, your kicks and pinches are getting so strong that it hurts mommy… but did I ever have to look and you and try to be everything for you?

Never.

And then I look and see your father and know that there is someone else here that is as embarrassingly hopeless as I am. I knew that, if there is ever a reason to, there is someone that I’m going to have to contend with if you ever need protecting. Someone else that needs you as much as I do.

What’s the future going to hold for you, Sugar? I don’t know. All I know is that I’ll be there, in any way shape or form you need me, I’ll be there. I don’t have a choice. And you should know that you don’t either.

You will always have us… a Mother and a Father, watching over you, protecting you, helping you, raising you and loving you. We will be your home base and your defender. And one day when you break our hearts for whatever reason children do, we will be patiently steady… waiting for you to grow and learn. You will never see our backs facing you. And we will constantly worry, (as we already do), and you will proceed regardless (as you already do). And I will know that my promise was kept, however unnecessary it was.

I was the smuggiest smugger when I was pregnant. I can admit that. I’m an even smuggier mom. (As you can surely tell.) This is Smuggy Pregnant Amber in Arizona at 16 weeks 6 days gestation. It was taken by Stephanie exactly a year ago (5 days ago)! Oddly enough my Mother tells me that “I” was in Arizona when I was in her belly at about the same time of my gestation. (Gestation is such a smug word. Love it.)

Smugginess during pregnancy is as unavoidable as talking about your child poop as a mother. As soon as that fetus is in the womb, the smug chemicals leak out. This is as adorable as baby drool. Enjoy.

I was about 15 weeks along here. I blossomed pretty early. This is what I looked like throughout my entire pregnancy. Hands on my belly and a smug little grin on my face*. “Looky… I created life. I’m sustaining it with my mind. What have you done today?”* Turns out there was about eleventy thousands of other woman who were blah blah blah… whatever. Because I created this and they didn’t*:

How does that taste? Bitter? Hard to swallow? Yeah, I thought so.* (Umm, Stephanie and I were just discussing this Scrubs quote and I choose to jack it.)

*It’s not that I think my kid’s better than yours… it’s just that he’s MY kid and sooo much better than yours I wuv him to pieces. Your kid’s cute too. Srsly, that kid of yours is adorable. I love me some children. I wanna see photos! Can I have them when they are all little and new? I like them the best. I’ll take good care of them! Nommmmmm… newborns.

The photo this phriday is itty bitty. There are only 3 things to blame: my liver and kidneys, (Kidneis? Kidni?). The mommy shown here, (a flippin’ photographer! edited because offending people is un-effing-cool), did not have her camera. Daddy shown here went home to take a shower while I was waiting on test results, but didn’t think the baby would come so he didn’t bring a camera. So, Dear Internet, our first family photo was taken with a camera phone.

After my c-section, they wheeled me straight into the nursery. In this photo I am still on a stretcher and heavily medicated because, look… I’m smiling. And look… I’m elevated. I’m obviously on drugs.

I remember Evan being all nekkid on the warmer, not screaming, just kinda lookin’ around. They wrapped him up and went to place him in my arms. I remember thinking, “OMFG! Don’t give me that child! I don’t know how to hold a newborn! I’m gonna break it! What are they thinking? Wait! The neck! Crap, am I going to shmush him? OMG, OMG, he’s gonna cry… don’t give him to me if he’s going to cry! He hates me! He doesn’t recognise me! He’s pissed ’cause I popped him out too early! Shit, shit, shit!” Then they plopped him down in my arms and I didn’t break him or anything. And he didn’t cry. He just kinda looked at me. While I silently apologised to him for everything I might do in his life to embarrass him/cause him psychological damage/screw him up because of my cluelessness/or fuck him up in general, I mumbled to Wayne, “Take a picture with your phone.” Most of the nursery nurses were standing around smiling at us and a nurse offered to take a picture of all three of us. And there you go. I just got it out of the phone because I may know my way around a computer, but the phone thing stumps me.

It’s pixel-y. The color is awful. It’s itty bitty. But the moment… the moment was enormous.

One has three kids. THREE! Why? Her hair isn’t gray just yet? She’s a masochistic wino and furry rat owner? (Or is Stephanie a wino because of the three kids? I’ve lost track.) The other one‘s girl child molests my son and has this weird coupon fetish. (Carrie, not her 5 month old daughter… which would be awesome!)

This was during a photography retreat in October of 2007. Evan and Lilah were no more than thoughts in our (Carrie and myself) little heads. Meanwhile, Stephanie’s little one, Wes, was a bitty newborn. Fun times had by all.